by Carla Schwartz
My friends ask if I’m still seeing him.
He’s nice, I affirm, embarrassed.
He’s smart. He’s generous. I like him.
You would have liked him.
The other day I said I thought he was on the spectrum.
Thoughtless, I know. But that’s what I was thinking.
I wanted to elaborate, start a conversation,
but these days we avoid the touchy spots.
He still kisses me. Says “Sometimes
it’s your turn. Sometimes, mine.”
I think I am getting somewhere, and maybe I am.
Now he accepts my invitations to dance.
Tonight we dance under the skies.
He tells me a story about his dead brother.
How he doesn’t miss him, either.